


Common Sense About Smoking

by mydogwatson



Series: Postcard Tales II [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Far too much smoking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:11:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7310788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief history of Sherlock's life thru cigarettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common Sense About Smoking

**Author's Note:**

> Lord, another non-fiction book. I wonder if these horrid titles are turning readers off? Well, nevertheless I will carry on and hope someone out there is still listening!
> 
> I sincerely appreciate the kudos and comments from all of you willing to look past boring titles to the actual story.

He was fourteen when he stole his first cigarette from Mycroft, who was done with uni and resting at home while waiting to begin his new job with some rather shadowy government department. Mummy and Daddy seemed pleased about the new position, but Sherlock had misgivings about where it could all end up. His brother had always been power hungry. Just that morning, he had wandered past Mycroft’s room and through a slight opening of the door saw him preening in front of the mirror in his new three-piece suit. Next it would be a bowler and a brolly, Sherlock had no doubt.

Later, he took advantage of the fact that Mycroft was in the kitchen having a large slice of Victoria sponge with a cup of tea to do what he had been planning ever since his realisation that Mycroft had secretly taken up smoking. Briefly, Sherlock thought about pausing to warn him that a deskbound government lackey really needed to watch his eating habits or he would soon be much rounder. But he didn’t say anything, already looking forward to teasing his pompous brother about being fat.

Instead, he crept back upstairs to Mycroft’s bedroom and quickly found where the pack of Benson and Hedges Silvers were [badly] hidden in the pants drawer. Sherlock removed the pack, slid one cigarette out, and worked carefully to be sure that the precise arrangement of carefully rolled white pants looked undisturbed as he put the pack back. Honestly, how anal did one have to be to roll every pair of pants to the exactly same dimensions and lay them out in tidy formation as if they were little cotton soldiers? He was willing to bet that if he opened the next drawer he would find Mycroft’s socks in shocking disarray, with no organisation at all. His brother was an idiot.

Sherlock skirted the kitchen this time and went through the back garden to his secret hideaway behind the old wooden shed. He ignited the cigarette with one of the matches he always carried, because one never knew, and inhaled deeply. For one glorious moment, a brilliant sense of clarity raced through him and Sherlock felt as if he were on the brink of some amazing discovery. The whole world was opening before him and anything was possible.

Then he bent over and lost his breakfast all over a stray patch of violets.

*

Sherlock stood at the periphery of the crime scene, poised delicately on that knife-edge between the high of his last hit and the desire for the next one. At the moment, he was filling that dangerous space with one fag after another. The tag ends of five Silk Cuts already littered the ground around his feet. Meanwhile, he was watching the newly promoted detective draw exactly the wrong conclusion from every bit of evidence that his apparently hapless forensics team turned up. Sherlock grinned to himself as he reached for cigarette number six. It would have been so easy for him to set the man straight, to tell him exactly who had committed the double murder, but he kept quiet.

After all, the last time he had spoken up at a crime scene, had politely [and correctly] point out that the wife had obviously not killed the man, the idiot officer had threatened to run him in on a drugs charge. Several times Sherlock tried to tell him that the murderer was obviously the secret male lover. But detective whatever-his-name-was was already leading the woman towards the response car, with some clearly untrue words about ‘helping with enquiries.’ That sheer stupidity had driven Sherlock to shout out his deductions and consequently be threatened with arrest himself.

So now he just watched and smoked, amusing himself by watching the complete incompetence being displayed by the so-called professionals.

Later, after he had tracked down his dealer and was relaxing in his dump of a flat, Sherlock would call in an anonymous tip, as usual first making sure to activate Mycroft’s borrowed [or possibly stolen] technology to block his number.

*

It had been nearly three years since Sherlock had sat like this on the roof of 221 and smoked a cigarette. Or most of a pack. Over that time, there had been many occasions when he doubted it would ever happen again. He was not sure how he felt about it now that it actually was.

He reached for another cigarette, not really sure how he felt about anything, truthfully.

One truth was clear: his body still hurt in far too many places, especially his back.

Mycroft, who was never going to let Sherlock forget the fact that it was his intervention which had gotten him out of a rather sticky situation, was now trying to tell him what to do next. But Sherlock had no intention of listening, of course.

Behind him, through the window, 221B was much too quiet. There was no kettle on the boil. No crap TV droning on. No sound of painfully slow fingers against the keyboard as a ridiculous blog was updated. There was not even an echo of the life he’d once had and then through his own carelessness [arrogance?] lost. The life that he had thought and maybe even assumed could be restored just by his return.

Mycroft thought he was in for an unpleasant surprise.

But his brother was a fat idiot.

Sherlock realised that he was now out of cigarettes. At any rate, it was time for him to go. Time to go see John and start getting back the life they both wanted. 

To hell with what Mycroft thought. Sherlock would find John, explain it all to him and everything would be fine.

He left the little pile of cigarette butts where they were.

*

Sherlock’s ignited his last cigarette ever.

It was also actually the first one in almost a year and, truthfully, he didn’t even really need it. Or want it much. Call it a bit of rebellion.

John didn’t know that he was behind the ramshackle shed in the back garden of the Holmes family cottage indulging in this one final blast of nicotine [cadged from Billy]. There was about an hour to go before the wedding would begin and John was no doubt still in the guestroom, debating with himself over which shirt to wear. Sherlock had told him that it really didn’t matter, but that had only made John frown. So Sherlock just left him to it.

“You naughty boy,” Mummy said from behind him.

Sherlock only shrugged and took a long drag, exhaling slowly. “Call it my stag party,” he suggested.

Mummy almost giggled. “John would not approve.”

“Then we shouldn’t tell him. No need to ruin his wedding day.”

“Not possible. He is incandescently happy.”

Sherlock just gave a hum.

“And so are you, Sherlock. A mother knows these things.”

He thought about telling her that the word ‘happy’ was laughably inadequate to describe how he was feeling. But that would be a very un-Sherlock thing to say, and might worry Mummy, so instead he just dropped the last-ever cigarette into the patch of violets that seemed eternal, crushing it out carefully with his shoe, and turned towards the house. Suddenly, he wanted to see John.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Common Sense About Smoking by C.M. Fletcher, et al


End file.
